


Strawbarry Sundays

by tinymarvels (Captain_of_the_sass)



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barry deserves an actual friend who cares about his well-being, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends, Fuches is still a dick, I probably fucked this timeline right up honestly, It took all the might of my one brain cell to write this, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spontaneous trips to IKEA, chapter two gets a bit more gritty, kind of, slightly funky flow of time, to something idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-24 20:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_of_the_sass/pseuds/tinymarvels
Summary: Sometimes you just need someone you can rely on when everything goes to shit.





	1. Player 2 Has Joined The Game

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why but my brain would not let me rest until I wrote this

Barry moves out of his apartment. He knows it’s for the best, considering the fact that apparently, he’s in danger of Hank and his idiots showing up to shoot him in the ass every time they don’t get their way. His roommates seem kind of bummed about it, but Barry suspects that it’s more about the loss of his share of the rent rather than any actual desire for his company. He can’t fault them for it, really, considering the weird hours he kept- the way he would disappear for days on end. With Sally and Mr. Cousineau he just feels…good. Happy. But somehow with everyone else Barry just finds it so hard to _click_. To establish any kind of real connection. He packs his ridiculously meager belongings, moves to a different, tinier apartment a few minutes away, and knows the guys won’t be any worse off without him. At least this way, there’s less chance of them being caught in the crossfire.

Speaking of, Barry has yet to reply to Hank’s latest text message. It reads _Sorry for trying to kill you_ followed by a frowny face. Barry sighs. He’s sitting on his ass on the floor, because the only furniture he owns is his bed and a nightstand. For a second he just tilts his head back- lets it rest against the wall. Then his phone rings.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Barry murmurs. Caller ID says it’s Hank. For a second Barry entertains the thought of dropping his phone into the toilet and flushing it. He answers it instead, ideally to tell Hank to _stop fucking calling him_ but as soon as the button is pressed Hank is off to the races, already bombarding him with a question.

“Barry, are you at home right now?” Hank asks.

“That’s none of your business, okay, I told you-“

“I’m outside. I bring you very nice housewarming gift.”

Barry’s brain screeches to a halt. “You _what_?” he growls incredulously, “I just got this place, like, four hours ago. How the _fuck_ did you get my address.”

“I have my ways,” Hank answers, sounding so stupidly smug and proud of himself. Translation: he sent one of his idiots to spy on him again. Barry’s on his feet in an instant, phone forgotten on the floor. He looks through the peephole in his door.

“God fucking dammit.”

Barry opens the door, spares a glance around to make sure nobody’s watching, then drags Hank inside by the collar of his stupid polo. The door slams shut as Barry shoves him up against the wall. The silence of the apartment is broken by the little yelp of surprise that escapes Hank’s lips.

Barry speaks, his voice is a hiss. Something low and dangerous, and deathly serious.

“I told you I was _done_, Hank. I agreed to teach your guys and that’s _it_. You don’t get to just keep _showing the fuck up. _Leave. Me. Alone.” He punctuates each word with a violent shake that has Hank’s head bobbing, then he finally releases him.

“I wanted to say sorry,” Hank says, like a child who’s just been scolded, “You never answer your text.” The man fusses and tugs his shirt back into place.

“That’s because I didn’t want to fucking talk to you,” Barry snaps back. The look on Hank’s face is strangely hurt. It passes quickly, however, replaced by a bright smile. He holds up a small gift bag that Barry had failed to notice before. Sloppy.

“I brought a gift,” Hank tells him, “To celebrate the new place! …And say sorry for having your old place shot at by shit Chechen assassin.”

Every conversation with Hank feels like Barry is simply beating his head against a brick wall. He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out a long-suffering sigh.

“If I take the present will you leave?” he asks, annoyed but slightly gentler than before, “I’m serious, man, you can’t just pop up unannounced like this.” What if Sally had been there? How would he possibly explain this?

“Well you have to _open_ it first, silly,” Hank chides.

“And then you’ll leave?”

“Cross my heart.”

Barry inspects the gift bag carefully. It’s a bright peach color, stuffed full of pale green tissue paper with little white polka dots.

“If this blows up, I will kill you for real this time,” Barry vows, “I’m not kidding.”

Hank crosses his arms and looks distinctly unimpressed. “Okay,” he complains, “Now you are just being ungrateful.”

Barry tugs out several pieces of tissue and lets them carelessly fall onto the floor, pulling out the contents of the bag with a look of confusion on his face. It’s a coffee mug…sort of. The thing is in the shape of a big red strawberry. Hank looks like he’s having the best day of his life.

“It’s berry for Barry!” he declares, beaming, “Get it?”

Barry literally does not possess the skills necessary to deal with this. “Yes, Hank. I get it. Thanks.”

“You are welcome. As promised, I will leave you now. I’m sure you have much unpacking to do.”

“I’m done, actually.” Barry finds himself answering, though he’s not sure why. There’s a moment of silence in which they both stand in the very obviously empty room.

“Wow.” Hank says. There’s a lot of pity packed into that one word and Barry feels like he should definitely be insulted. Hank continues with, “It’s…nice.” And Barry rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Get out now.”

Surprisingly, Hank actually does.

Two days later an IKEA catalog shows up in Barry's mail.

The day after that, Barry's phone rings again.

"Hank I told you to stop calling me."

"But I missed you," Hank complains.

"You just saw me. You were with me all day out in the desert while I trained your stupid army."

"Yeah, but that was work thing. I want to hang out- you buy furniture yet, spice up new apartment?"

Barry hangs up.

In the middle of the night there's a pounding on his door. Barry's on high a alert immediately, gun in hand. The silence stretches.  
"Barry? It's Hank."  
_Fucking shithead baldass motherfucker_. He opens the door to find Hank standing there, one eye discolored and swollen, a thin stream of drying blood streaking down from his hairless brow.  
"What the fuck about _do not show up here _was unclear to you?" Barry snarls, yanking him inside before anyone sees him.

"I didn't know where else to go," Hank whispers, "I get in fight with Esther, because I hate her, and I throw Better Homes and Gardens magazine in her face. She do this to me." He gestures to his busted up eye. She must have been wearing some kind of ring, because there's a slight gauge in Hank's brow where the blood is dripping down.  
"So you're telling me you stirred up shit with the Burmese then led them _here_?" Barry snaps, "Get out."  
"But my face-"  
Barry stomps into the kitchen, yanks open the freezer, and throws a package of frozen steak at him. Hank fumbles, but surprisingly manages to catch it.  
"There. Put that on your face and get out."  
Hank pouts the whole way, right up until Barry slams the door in his face.

He calls the next day.  
"Barry, thank you for the steak. You want me to buy you a new one?"  
Barry hangs up again.

It becomes a cycle. Every couple days his phone rings and Hank is on the other end.

"I started new yoga class."

"You see the smoothie shop that opened up across from the Starbucks downtown?"

"Do you think you can pick up Lululemon order for me?"

Usually Barry greets him with a menacing order to _fuck off..._but this time he just hits the accept button numbly; says nothing.

"Barry?" Hank ventures, "Hello? You there?"

"I had a fight with my girlfriend." Barry doesn't know why he says it, and why to Hank of all people. "She...she's really pissed at me this time."

"You at home? You stay right there, I'll be right over."

"No, Hank, you don't need to-"

"Right over, promise."

The line goes dead. Turns out _right over_ was being pretty optimistic. Barry spends over an hour working on (or more accurately, staring at) his monologue before there's a knock on the door. When he opens it, Hank brandishes a tinfoil-wrapped pan with a burst of showmanship.  
"Ta-da," he announces, "I make you cinnamon rolls."  
He steps inside, comfortable, as if he'd been there a million times before.

"Okay," Hank says, "You have _got_ to get some furniture, because this?" He whirls one delicately pointed finger around the empty room, "Is just sad. No wonder you're depressed."  
Barry is already regretting this. He shuts the door and returns to his usual spot on the floor.  
"You have forks?" Hank asks, voice much softer this time.  
"In the kitchen, drawer next to the sink."  
Hank disappears, and Barry can hear him rifling around in the kitchen. When he returns it's with two small plates and two forks.  
"Barry, seriously man," Hank grumbles, "You need to go shopping. You only have, like, five plates? What happens if you have guests?"

"I'm not going to have guests, Hank."  
"You have me," Hank reminds him, and Barry stays silent at that. He expects more complaining, expects Hank to keep hassling him about having nowhere to sit, but instead Hank wordlessly sits down beside him on the floor. The man hands him one of the plates, and there's a cinnamon roll on it.  
"Fresh baked," Hank tells him, "Usually would be homemade, but because of time crunch I use Pillsbury tube kind."  
"It's great, Hank," Barry replies, somewhat lacking in enthusiasm, "Thanks."  
"You want to talk about girlfriend troubles?"

Does he? Barry doesn't know. It sounds like something friends would discuss, and Barry doesn't have any of those.  
"I just...sometimes I don't know what she wants from me, you know? I love her. Really, I do. But I feel like I say one wrong thing and she gets pissed. It's like...I have to guess which emotional response she wants from me."  
"You tell her you feel this way?"  
"Yeah."  
"Oh, Barry. Bad choice." Hank pops a bite of cinnamon roll in his mouth.  
It's strange, but...Barry actually laughs.  
"Yeah, bad choice. Now she won't talk to me."  
Hank bumps their shoulders together companionably, grinning. The bruise on his face is now a faded purple and yellow.  
"You will work it out. When Cristobal and I argue, we always make it work, because we _care_. You seem to care very much."

Barry charitably decides not to mention that this time around Hank's method of _making it work_ involves murdering the head of the Burmese crime syndicate. He simply replies, with surprising honesty, 

"Thanks Hank."

Later that night, alone in his apartment, he decides that ordering a couch couldn't hurt.

After that it's weird how quickly Hank just seems to move into his life. He's constantly sending Barry texts about his day, and when they meet up in the desert for training sessions it's like they actually have something to talk about. Not a lot, but...Barry dreads it just slightly less. When the people from his acting class post good looking recipes to the class Facebook page Barry finds himself thinking _Hank would love this_. Wants to send Hank the link. He doesn't, though, because this is dangerous territory. Barry is trying to get **_out_**\- out of the crime, and the dirtiness, and the awful fucking shitstorm of his old life- and Hank is still very firmly, very happily, _in it_. He cannot be friends with Hank.

And yet, on Sunday the man shows up at his door with takeout and Barry lets him in. Hank sits on the couch circling things in the IKEA catalog while Barry plays X-Box on the TV he had finally broken down and bought.  
"You need some lighter accents in here, man," Hank says offhandedly, "It's all very dark. Feels like a prison cell."  
"It's fine, Hank," Barry answers grumpily, "I like it like this."  
"Really? This is fine?" Hank looks at him, completely serious, "You say you want to go straight and start new life here, but you furnish your apartment like you are ready to skip town at moment's notice. Is that the kind of life you want?"  
The words sting, dig into something deep in Barry's chest and _squeeze_.  
"What would you suggest?"

They take a trip to IKEA. The place is huge and no matter where they go Barry feels overexposed. It's an awful sensation, like needles boring into his back. The third time he hesitates Hank rolls his eyes, takes him by the hand, and leads him into the next isle.  
"What we need is a pop of color," he says, "I myself would go with nice shade of mint green, but you seem more like monochromatic kind of guy."  
People start giving them strange looks as they pass by; a slight widening of the eyes, or a even an odd sort of encouraging smile. Others seem to purposely avert their gazes as if suddenly an off-white lampshade is the most interesting thing they've ever seen. It's fucking weird. Barry held hands with Sally all the time and nobody so much as blinked, yet with Hank it's like suddenly they're the focal point of the entire store. Barry slips his hand free under the guise of checking out one of the lamps on display.  
"I like this one," he lies. To be honest he doesn't actually give a fuck; a lamp is a lamp as far as Barry's concerned. But Hank's face lights up, and he starts adding the product number to their growing list.  
"Good choice; silver goes very nicely with dark colors."  
They end up placing an order for the furniture, scheduling the delivery day for sometime next week. The only item they actually walk out of the store with is a single mint green fleece blanket.

When Fuches shows back up in his life as usual everything goes to hell. Barry makes a mess of the hit on Ronny and winds up back in his apartment with his shirt fucking _superglued to his body_ because Fuches is a piece of shit.  
He starts trying to separate the fabric from his skin but the pain is excruciating, so Barry picks up his phone and flips through his contacts. Sally. Mr. Cousineau. Fuches. Fellow acting class members. There's no one he can go to for this. Barry staggers to the kitchen for a glass of water, and when he opens the cupboard a ridiculous strawberry-shaped coffee mug stares back at him.

Huh.  
"Hank," Barry says when the call goes through, "I need your help."

"Okay," Hank says, face stuck in his phone, "Google is telling me we need nail polish remover."

"I don't _have_ nail polish remover." Barry snarls.

"No need to get snippy, sheesh." Hank picks up the plastic bag he'd brought over and starts digging through it. "Lucky for you, I pick some up." He brandishes a bottle of cheerful pink fluid with a flourish.  
The process is slow-going. They've set up shop in the bathroom, with Barry sitting in the tub while Hank kneels over him, hands carefully working away the layers of crusted glue. They agreed it would be best to work their way from the outside in, saving the area around Barry's stab wound for last. Barry has slipped his arms out of his sleeves, and is sitting there with about half a shirt on.  
"You know," Hank says conversationally, "Usually, I come to someone's house, spend time with them in bathtub, it does not go like this."  
"You have something better to do?" Barry mumbles in response. He aches all over, feels absolutely sick to his stomach, and he's just so fucking tired.  
"I have lots of things to do!" Hank answers with righteous indignation, "I am very important man, you know. Very busy. I am out there running like a dog to win Cristobal back from evil hag Esther."  
"Yeah, I know. You tell me about it, like, every day when I'm trying to focus on training your guys."  
"She's just ruining everything, you know? Me and Cristobal? We were so _tight_. Now he's always so preoccupied, he never want to see me."  
Barry sighs, rolls his eyes, then curses at a particularly painful pull. He feels his shirt separate from his skin another few centimeters.  
"Sorry!" Hank blurts, "Sorry." His hands start back up with more gentle ministrations. It might have actually felt good if it wasn't for the suffocating alcohol rich scent of the nail polish remover coupled with the fact that Barry has a gaping wound in his back.  
"I think it is time for final stage. This _might_ hurt a little." Hank warns. Barry grits his teeth.  
"Do it."  
Hank takes a soaked cotton swab and starts to dab at the spot where shirt meets swollen skin. At first there's nothing. Then the layer of glue starts to dissolve and it _burns_.  
"Ah, **_shit_**," Barry nearly shouts.  
"This is terrible for your skin you know," Hank says, "Very drying."  
"I don't fucking care!"  
"Okay, okay, oh shit-" the shirt yanks free, "Oh sweet baby Jesus."  
Barry can feel the warmth sliding down his back and knows that he's bleeding again.  
"How's it look," he rasps.  
"It's terrible," Hank says, "Oh my God, Barry. Seriously, this? It's disgusting."  
"Please just stitch me up so I can get some fucking sleep." Barry pleads. Hank's pressing a towel against his back to stem the flow of blood with one hand, and rifling through the plastic bag with the other. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey.  
"Might want to try some of that, first." He tells him. Barry snatches it, takes a long greedy pull. Easing the towel away, Hank sneaks a peak at the hole in his back. Barry hears him gag.  
"Don't you fucking throw up on me, Hank."  
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry. It's just...so gross." he picks up a pair of tweezers. "There are threads in here man, the fuck you do to yourself?"  
"Fuches." Barry says. No more, no less. Slowly, painfully, Hank starts to pluck out the split stitches. The bottle of whiskey is quickly becoming Barry's new best friend. He takes another long sip as Hank finally threads the needle.  
"Ready?" He asks, and Barry simply nods.  
It's pretty much excruciating. Each stab of the needle leaves a trail of fire in its wake.  
"You're lucky I am very good seamstress." Hank grumbles, "_And_ you are lucky I love you. Best friends, man, you and me."  
Friends. Because that's what they are, now. Barry can't deny it; for the first time when he had needed someone's help, no questions asked, he had known exactly who to call. And Hank had delivered. There's a slight twinge as Hank ties off the string, then he takes a tiny pair of scissors and snips off the excess.  
“There. Now ointment, bandage, and presto. All done, easy peasy."  
When they finish Barry can barely walk in a straight line long enough to fall into bed. He lays on his stomach, body becoming one with the mattress.  
"Take a break, buddy," Hank tells him, "You've earned it."  
Barry's only distantly aware of the fact that Hank leans down and presses a kiss into his hair- then he's out like a light.

"No, I don't want to go bowling, Hank."

"Hey, can we push tomorrow's training back an hour? I have to cover someone's shift in the morning."

"You get that new recipe I sent you?"

"Hank, you need to cancel that IKEA subscription you signed me up for- they keep sending me spam."

"You can't come over, I have an event for my acting class on Saturday. No, Hank, you can't watch."

"Man, you left your jacket on my couch the other night."

"Hey, what was that weird fruit juice you like? I'm at the store."

On and on it goes.  
Barry wonders how, somewhere down the line, Noho Hank became someone he couldn't live without.


	2. Press X to Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't work out quite how I envisioned, but hopefully you guys still like it.
> 
> Some notes on the alternate timeline of events at the end

Barry’s just stepping out of the shower when his phone rings.

“Barry,” Hanks says without preamble, “Hi. Just called to say there is no need to worry about training assassin army anymore.”

And seriously, what the fuck?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Barry grumbles, putting the call on speaker and setting his phone down so he can ruffle a towel against his wet hair, “We still have a couple sessions left, you think your guys are ready?”

“No, no,” Hank answers, “But I don't need them to kill stupid jerk Esther anymore. Cristobal and I…we have decided to take break.” There’s a strange note in his voice, like the cheerfulness there is forced. Fake. “So…war with Burmese? Like, who even needs that noise, am I right? You don’t need to worry; you did very good job. You gave me an army, just like promised. Slate is cleaned, buddy. You owe me nothing.”

Barry’s already yanking a set of clean clothes on, skin still uncomfortably damp.

“Where are you,” he demands. There’s a beat of silence, and Barry can clearly imagine the look of confusion of Hank’s face when he says;

“What, right now? At this moment?”

“Yes, right now.”

“I’m outside, on bench.”

Barry takes a breath to calm his irritation and picks up the phone.

“Where is the bench, Hank?” his tone is slow and he enunciates each word, like he’s repeating something to a child.

“Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot, Barry,” Hank says, “You know I hate when you do that.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just tell me where you are,” Barry answers. He tacks on a belated, “Please,” because he knows Hank is weak against hearing him use proper manners. Through the speaker Hank sighs.

“You know park you pick me up in after yoga class?”

“Yeah, man. Just stay put, I’ll be there in a minute.”

It’s around dusk when Barry arrives. It’s easy enough to find Hank- he’s sitting on a bench not far from the picnic area they had met up at once before, two huge suitcases at his feet. He’s just sitting there, staring at the ground.

“Hank,” Barry calls as he approaches, “You okay?” The man visibly startles at the sound of his voice.

“Me?” Hank says, looking up and cracking a smile, “Oh yeah. Super great, man. Split up with Cristobal was totally mutual, you know? Not like I am super broken up about it or anything.” His eyes, however, are red and swollen, and Barry feels an odd twinge in his chest.

“Come on,” he finds himself saying, picking up one of the man's suitcases, "I’ve been recording that show you like on my DVR.”

“_Say Yes to the Dress_?”

“That’s the one.”

Hank spends the night on the couch and sort of just...never leaves. On slow lazy mornings he stands in front of the stove cooking breakfast, shimmying his hips along to the rhythm of his own humming, and on days when Barry has work he carefully packs up lunch for him in a set of plastic Tupperware containers that Barry didn't even know he owned. Most of the time, when Hank's in the kitchen, he's wearing an apron. It ties into a neat bow at the the small of the man's back and seeing it gives Barry a strange feeling in his stomach. 

The more time they spend with each other, the more Barry notices that he can't seem to get away from that feeling. 

It rises up whenever Hank, evidently having a good dream as he dozes on the couch, smiles that stupid soft smile in his sleep. It comes back when Hank's arms catch Barry's eye, stronger and more toned than he would have thought, with these two veins that- _fuck_. The first time Hank comes wandering out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist Barry nearly chokes on his coffee. 

The coffee that he was drinking out of the strawberry-shaped coffee mug that Hank had gifted him.

Obviously, Barry has a problem. And like most of his problems, he decides to avoid it. Barry shoves that weird feeling down, and concentrates on keeping things strictly friendly. He'd say professional, but that ship has long sailed considering Hank lives on his couch.

They pull off the hit on Esther. They, as in Hank and his Barry-trained group of Chechens. They have no choice, because Hank had already pinned the blame for Goran's death on Esther's back. It was her or Hank, and Barry was afraid to admit that if it came down to it, he'd kill Esther himself just to keep that from happening.

As it was though, Barry simply spent the evening in acting class rehearsal feeling jittery and off his game. Sally continuously sent him concerned glances, but made no move to speak with him. He had thought after their last fight that they would patch things up like always, but...it hadn't come smoothly. Barry had found himself not wanting to put in the effort it took to fix it, so at last he just let whatever they once had slowly slip through his fingers.

Lately, his daydreams and fantasies had been changing, and they featured someone else.

When Hank came home that night it was with a bottle of champagne. Barry thought it was morbid to be celebrating somebody's murder, but he was too fucking relieved to give Hank shit for it.

"You ever think about moving to bigger place?" Hank says casually over bacon and eggs one morning, "Not that your apartment is not totally been cleaned up nicely- looking good, for real."

Barry knew this was coming eventually. 

"If you don't like my couch you can always find your own apartment, Hank. Hell, you could probably afford some kind of crazy huge house like Goran's, if you wanted."

Hank's voice was small when he answered, "Yeah, but if I move into big mansion house, then you would not be there..." he picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled at the end of it, "I like being roommates with you. Two bros, living good life. Like Scooby and Shaggy."

"Wasn't Scooby Doo Shaggy's dog?"

"So what! They were best friends, for life. Are we not best friends?"

Barry sighs.

He contacts his landlord and pays the ridiculously hefty fee to terminate his lease early. 

The new place is admittedly pretty nice. Nothing too extravagant, despite Hank's protests. Barry wanted something they could evenly split the rent on, and Lululemon doesn't exactly pay the bills like his last job. He wouldn't trade it, though. Barry was done with his old shit, for real this time. No more. Hank doesn't talk about what he does when he leaves for "work" anymore, and Barry doesn't ask.

Whatever it is, this strange thing between them, it works.

Barry enjoys running his lines with Hank's surprisingly helpful feedback.

He enjoys the way they switch between who cooks and who does the dishes (Barry is much better at the cleaning than the cooking, but Hank insists on teaching him)

He enjoys the way the decor in the apartment slowly starts to look more like a home

The way Hank fills his DVR with TV shows Barry has never even heard of

How the bathroom has two toothbrushes, the shower now contains Hank's scented body wash, and how one of the bathroom cupboards is full of Hank's various lotions and colognes. He convinces Barry to try them on occasion, and though he doesn't personally think they suit him, Barry likes the way their scents seem intermingled for hours after. 

Barry's...happy. There's no sign of trouble, acting class is running smoothly, he and Sally have agreed to try at least being friends again, and life is good. Naturally, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And it does.

One afternoon Hank doesn't come back from yoga class at his usual time. Barry figures the guy is literally the current boss of the entire Chechen crime syndicate in LA, he can handle himself. He's not worried, not even when it gets dark out. Not even when he's checking his phone every minute to see if he's missed any messages. Totally, completely, not worried.

At 1am he breaks down and tries calling him. It rings for a long time, and just when Barry's expecting to get the answering machine there's a click and a rustling sound on the other end of the line.

"Hello, Barry." Fuches says. For Barry the whole world goes still, but Fuches carries on. His tone is almost conversational, as if they're discussing nothing but the weather. "I was surprised, when I found out you were shacking up with that little bald guy. Now that lovely girl from your acting class, I could see. But Hank?" the man chuckles, "He seems like somewhat of an_ acquired_ taste."

Barry can hear his pulse pounding, finds it hard to breathe.

"Where is he, Fuches," he chokes out, "Please, just- tell me where he is."

"Oh?" The answer is sickly sweet, and absolutely disgusting. "You mean he hasn't made it back to you yet? He left here a couple of hours ago. Prettied him all up and told him to take the message back home to you. Must have gotten lost on the way back; the monastery isn't in such a great part of town, you know? Have a good night, Barry."

The rage that bubbled up in Barry's blood was so strong that he trembled with it. 

"Fuches, I swear if you-"

The line went dead. Barry's anger burst and he screamed with it, punched a fist straight through the drywall. 

He broke nearly a dozen traffic laws on the way to the monastery, and he didn't care. Didn't care at all because he wanted _blood_\- wanted Fuches broken and bleeding and _afraid_\- and then...then he wanted to be the one to put a bullet right between the man's eyes. Barry's completely intent on storming straight through the entire building and obliterating anyone who stands between him and his target, right until he passes by a blob on the side of the road, under a streetlight. His tires screech when he slams the brakes, kicking up a plume of smoke. Shifting into reverse, Barry eases his way backward. 

The blob is Hank. He's sitting on the curb with his arms around himself and his head down, but Barry would recognize him anywhere. 

"Oh thank fuck," he breathes, throwing the car into park right there on the street. He rolls the passenger side window down. "Hank? Buddy, you okay?"

The man visibly startles at the sound of his voice, muscles going tense. His head makes an aborted movement as if to look up, but it's just a fractional motion that Hank cuts off, turning his face back down.

"Hello, knight in shining armor," he says, "Little late, but effort is very much appreciated." There's a faint wheezing sound at the end of Hank's breaths and Barry has a sinking feeling in his gut. "I'm waiting for Uber driver, so. You can go home now."

What the fuck.

"Hank, man, come on. Get in the car."

"No thank you, I'm totally good. Have some things to do, though, so won't be back tonight. Maybe for a while, actually. Very busy."

"Hank, get in the fucking car or I will put you in it myself."

When there's no answer Barry growls out a curse and gets out, walking around to where Hank is sitting. Hank hunches in on himself as he approaches, then lets out a pained little hiss that stops Barry in his tracks.

"What the hell is going on," he demands, "What happened, what the fuck did Fuches do to you."

Hank's face is still maddeningly, infuriatingly, hidden from view. 

"You weren't supposed to find out," Hank says, "I was going to keep secret, make sure you didn't see this. Shut lock, throw away key."

"Hank, look at me."

"He wanted to use me to send you message, but only fucking idiots give bad guys what they want."

"Hank, fucking _look at me!_"

He does. His head comes up, and Barry feels like he's going to be sick. Hank's face is so discolored it's barely recognizable, a thick stream of dried blood under his nose and around his mouth. One eye is so swollen that Barry wonders if Hank can even see out of it. There on the street, Barry drops to his knees in front of him. 

"Shit," he rasps. He reaches out, as if to touch, but stops himself. Shock, shame, sympathy. Then, the rage again. Barry balls his hands into white-knuckled fists and bares his teeth.

"I'm going to kill him," he snarls, "he's fucking _dead_." 

Hank throws his hands up in exasperation, although he quickly brings them back down with a wince.

"See? This is why I don't come home. You see my face, he gets exactly what he wants. Now you overreact and get all kinds of dramatic. Is why I wanted to stay out of our apartment until I no longer look like rotted pumpkin face."

"How long have you been sitting out here?" Barry asks incredulously. Hank seems to consider it.

"I don't know, few hours maybe?"

"A few- do you have _any idea_ how much I've been- _fuck_. So what, you just didn't want to come home because Fuches told you to? What was the plan, pitch a tent and camp out for a _month_ while your face heals, and I'm stuck wondering if you're dead in a ditch somewhere?"

"When you put it like that it sounds bad..."

"It _is_ bad! Get in the damn car, we're going home."

Barry has to help him up. It's a slow process, one that makes Hank suck in a painful hiss, breathing through his mouth in slow labored bursts. Barry starts the drive back to the apartment, glancing over every once in a while to watch the way Hank warms his hands in front of the vents in the dashboard. There are angry red rope burns on his wrists. Barry focuses back on the road.

"Fuches has your phone," he casually informs Hank.

"Huh?" 

"You lied when you said you called an Uber."

Hank lets out a huff. "Be nice to me, Barry, my face hurts."

"Yeah, you wanna talk about that?" It's not a question so much as a demand for an explanation. Hank sighs, poking at a spot of blood on his shirt. He's wearing a tank top and a pair of skin-tight leggings that usually drive Barry crazy, but at the moment all he can focus on is the way they're scuffed and covered in stains. He forces his eyes away once more.

"Fuches," Hank says, "He wait for me after workout, say he wanted to patch things up with you. You guys; you were like family, man, I wanted to help. But second my back is turned, bam-" Hank snaps a finger for effect, "-someone jumps me. Out like light."

"He was working with someone else?" 

Hank rests his head against the window.

"Mm. More than one someones. I think when we kill Esther, Fuches decided to take advantage. Few guys who didn't stay on heroin operation with Cristobal, he pick them up."

"Fucking hell," Barry murmurs, "How long have you known about this?"

"Are you for real?" Hank snaps, "Why would I know? Cristobal and I are broken up. He's your crazy family, man. Just because I'm Chechen boss now doesn't mean I spend my time babysitting all bad guys in LA. I would have, like, no free time ever."

Barry sighs, and they lapse into silence. He can't help but notice the way Hank seems to have wilted into his seat, the way he breathes in- slow and measured. When they make it to the apartment Hank makes a beeline straight for the bathroom mirror. He lets out a barrage of what Barry can only assume are curses in a language Barry'd never heard from him before.

"Barry," Hank shouts, looking at him mournfully through the open bathroom door, "I look like shit!" 

Barry leans against the door-frame, arms crossed over his chest. "Uh, yeah? You just got the shit beat out of you, what did you expect?" 

Hank's face is completely unamused. 

"I look like buttered face." He says.

Barry stares. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Buttered face. You know, beautiful body ugly face?" 

"_What?_ Where did you even _learn_ that?"

"I read Spring Break magazine, get tips on hot summer bod." Hank pulls his polo off over his head, movements stiff and painful to watch, to look at his torso. "Now look- summer body is totally ruined." 

Barry swallows thickly, heart like lead in his chest. It looks like it _hurts_. There are already deep mottled bruises blooming all over Hank's skin, huge splashes of vibrant red. He knows with experience that they'll only look worse over the next few days. Hank is oblivious to Barry's reaction, muttering to himself as he turns his face this way and that in the mirror.

"Hank," Barry breathes, "Fuck, man." He drifts closer, hand outstretched and just hanging in the air. Hank's eyes meet his in the mirror for just a moment before he turns to look at him.

"It's not so bad," Hank decides, "Makes me look way tough. Like cool guy Jason Bourne, from that movie I watch with you."

Barry's hand makes contact. It falls on Hank's shoulder, slides down his arm, and ghosts over a prominent bruise along Hank's ribcage.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, eyes frozen on that splatter of deep color against pale skin. 

"Hey," Hank says, and when that fails to get Barry's attention he tries again, "_Hey_ my eyes are up here, you know."

Slowly Barry slides his gaze back up.

"This is nothing," Hank tells him, "Bruises will heal. I'm right here, dude. Still kicking; everything turn out fine."

It could have been more than nothing, though. No more morning breakfasts. No more gossip and design magazines cluttering up the coffee table, or trips to the organic market, or nights spent on the couch watching cringy 80s movies that Hank thinks are cool. Fuches could have- 

And Hank might have-

...Barry could have lost it all.

The hand on Hank's ribs slides around his waist and pulls him in until Barry is clutching at him, face buried in Hank's neck. The scent there is of sweat and blood now, but Barry doesn't care. There in bathroom Hank strokes his hair while he trembles. 

Tomorrow, he would kill Fuches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as the timeline on this goes, I imagine that when Esther is killed instead of Fuches focusing on Cousineau he decides to (like the evil snake he is) try to slip his way into Cristobal's good graces. It works, somewhat, and on the side he convinces some of the Burmese to help him out with a quick little job (without Cristobal's knowledge cuz I can't see him being cool with them beating the hell out of Hank tbh) idk timeline is whack just go with it
> 
> I wrote a couple paragraphs already for the confrontation between Barry and Fuches so if that's something yall wanna see let me know.
> 
> I also had a couple alternate versions of this chapter because I couldn't decide where to go. In one, Fuches doesn't keep Hank's phone, so Barry spends like a week hunting (with increasing irritation and desperation) for Hank (who is very determinedly avoiding him because he doesn't want Barry to see his swollen face) lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I did my best with the characterization, hopefully it wasn't too awful. I love Hank's accent but it's so hard for me to write?? wtf
> 
> I'm considering a part two depending on how this one is received; I'm new to the Barry scene lmao. I really want to try something where Hank gets hurt pretty bad and Barry goes Ultimate Rage Mode(trademark pending).
> 
> Check out my dumbassery on stan Twitter if you want; @RlovesE


End file.
